


The Shouts of Our Hearts

by ABookAndACoffee



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst, F/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-10-31 22:21:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17858057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ABookAndACoffee/pseuds/ABookAndACoffee
Summary: Feyre Archeron prepares for her marriage to Tamlin, a man who will ensure the survival of her family, but she can't shake the feeling that a stranger with violet eyes could offer her more."There, on the fringes of the crowd, was someone who looked at Feyre with more curiosity than malice. A tall, dark man with eyes of violet, who caused everyone else in the room to fall away. His boutonnière consisted of a single, pale pink rose, matching those she held in her hand. The whisper of gossip, the rustling of silk skirts, and the buzz of Tamlin’s voice dimmed and were replaced with the roar of Feyre’s pumping blood as her eyes locked with his. What should have been fear at being so scrutinized was instead intrigue, and she felt short of breath. Telling herself that it was due to her intricate dress and corsetry, Feyre stood up straighter, lifted her chin, and stared back at the man who had the insolence to look at her as if he knew her."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I literally have no idea how long this will be or how often I'll update!

Feyre stood at the edge of the crowd, the press of bodies and hope a nearly strangling experience. She reached up to adjust the lace at the collar of her dress, then stopped herself as she imagined Nesta’s hand swatting her own away, reminding her of how undignified it was to appear uncomfortable. At least here, on the outer edges of the ball, Feyre could imagine the cool air of the winter. Even the frigid temperatures of that February evening were a welcome thought in comparison to the humid heat in the ornately-decorated Spring Court ballroom. 

Tonight, Feyre would officially announce her engagement to the man who would secure the future of her family and her own wellbeing, the man to whom she owed her salvation. While the engagement was widely known, and had been since the moment Tamlin appeared in her family’s small, dark parlor with a ring in hand, this was their first public event as an engaged couple. 

Here, the truth had a habit of being deniable if no one had spoken it in public. Everyone might know who had made or lost a fortune, whose husband was having an affair with the nanny, but it only mattered if the words were said out loud and acknowledged by others beyond a parlor. That, Tamlin had explained, was why they needed to throw this party, to make an event of their upcoming marriage. 

Perhaps it was more accurate to say that Tamlin would announce their engagement, and Feyre would smile serenely with her arm resting on Tamlin’s as he escorted her around the room. As one of the most eligible bachelors in Prythian, the expectation of his engagement announcement had drawn more than its fair share of on-lookers, and Feyre wondered if even he could name each person who had made an appearance that evening. Feyre might have remembered more, if so many among them hadn’t pretended that the Archeron family ceased to exist as soon as they lost their fortune. 

If only that nagging feeling in the pit of Feyre’s stomach would let her live comfortably with the idea that this pomp and circumstance was agreeable, that she would still make the same choices if it were only her and Tamlin. This was the sort of ceremony Elain would have loved, and deserved. Then again, Elain deserved better than to be sold into marriage to pay off the Archeron family debts. Feyre and Nesta would have done anything to spare her that, and so the two sisters marched towards a matrimonial future, telling themselves that love was only one part of marriage, and surely not the most important part. 

Then again, Feyre did love Tamlin. They had met by chance months ago, and since then her life had been a whirlwind of courtship and social landmines. It was widely known that Tamlin’s father had left a clause in his inheritance that he be married by a certain age, an age which was quickly approaching. If he failed, he would forfeit the title of High Lord, the lands, and the money to a distant cousin. Feyre was as aware of this as anyone else, and she told herself that the desperate way Tamlin clung to her was because he needed her as much as she needed him. Their marriage wasn’t just a matter of love, but of survival. Feyre knew she would be fooling herself to ignore the pragmatic nature of the arrangement. 

The gossip upon their engagement had consisted of a general, restrained outrage that Tamlin, High Lord of the Spring Court, would stoop so low as to choose the youngest daughter of a fallen family. That they were morally upstanding didn’t matter - the Archerons were poor, had few connections, and would bring nothing to the marriage. After all Tamlin’s years of bachelorhood, when he could have had anyone he wanted, he chose poor, unrefined Feyre Archeron. Then again, the Spring Court wasn’t in need of a fortune, though it was in need of an heir. And that, presumably, Feyre could provide.

All of these concessions to need had brought Feyre to that evening, surrounded by strangers who knew everything about her while she knew nothing of them, a rock buffeted by the sea of their gossip and prying eyes. 

Feyre strained to look over the heads replete with feathers and ornaments, the braids and curls and pearls that were the result of hours of work. The decoration was all to give the same impression of affluence and influence, of easy elegance. Tamlin was supposed to have walked her into the ball on his arm but he was running late, and she decided that it would be just as well if she entered on her own. Apparently that had been an improper choice, as the whispers began the moment she was announced on her entry into the ballroom.

A familiar spot in a darker corner of the ballroom was an ideal position for anyone looking to discourage attention, but it seemed that the spotlight was determined to find Feyre. A few women had attempted to engage her in conversation, though she was unclear of their aims. One woman, with an ample bosom and a dress complete with yards of French lace that must have cost more than the Archerons earned in a year, pretended to wave to a friend before leaving Feyre in a cloud of perfume. Everyone wanted to talk about Feyre or at her, but not with her, and she had the distinct impression of being in the crowd but not a part of it.

Feyre pressed the gloved palm of her free hand over her skirts, feeling the fabrics glide over one another. The room was filled with silk and finery, and all of it was designed to hide as much as it revealed. 

Realizing that she would experience fewer attempts at conversation with strangers if she could find a friend, Feyre began searching for someone, anyone with a friendly face. Across the room, Feyre saw a familiar head of golden hair, laced with ropes of gems and feathers. Pale shoulders were swathed in shades of blue silk, Ianthe’s signature color. When Feyre met Ianthe’s cool gaze, she raised a hand slightly, hoping it would be enough to draw her friend to her. The woman merely dipped her chin in acknowledgement, so slightly that if Feyre hadn’t been expecting the gesture, she might have missed it. But Ianthe turned away from her, offering no anchor in the storm. 

Frustrated, but not surprised, Feyre turned to look once more at the staircase leading to Tamlin’s rooms. The corset that Alis had laced her into pulled tightly on Ferye’s ribs, forcing her to take shallow breaths, and she clenched her nosegay of pale pink roses. When she felt a hand on her elbow she let out a sigh of relief and turned. “Tamlin, where have you been?” But she started to see not her fiancé, but a familiar head of red hair. 

“He wanted me to tell you he’s nearly ready,” Lucien said without looking at her. Instead, Lucien glanced around the room nearly as nervously as Feyre had been. He held her elbow lightly, eyes narrowing at the sight of his father. 

“Thank you for letting me know.” Feyre nodded her head curtly. 

Tamlin’s childhood best friend usually had the task of easing tense situations between them, and this after they had only known each other for a few months. Feyre wondered what his role would become when Tamlin could no longer make so much use of Lucien’s diplomacy. It wasn’t as if their friend would live with them, an eternal buffer. But it wasn’t as if Lucien could return home, either. 

Lucien’s posture loosened as he looked at her. “Come now, Feyre.” He raised his arm, which Feyre took gladly. “I think we both know what to expect from Tamlin by now. And he’s nervous, you know.”

Feyre frowned and brought the small bouquet of roses to her nose. They were sweet and delicate, and would have been overpowering had she accepted the larger display Tamlin had wanted her to carry. “What does he have to be nervous about? Aren’t these his friends?”

Lucien laughed softly, and Feyre wondered what joke she had made. “True, but they aren’t just friends. And you don’t need to be nervous, Feyre. In a few months you’ll be married and they’ll be stepping on one another’s necks for an invitation to your home. Trust me,” he added, “they may be vipers now, but they will become house cats nuzzling you for scraps soon enough.” 

Feyre blushed slightly, wondering how many people would begin talking about her closeness with her fiancé’s oldest friend. But Lucien’s candor with her always came with some reassurance. Here, at least, was one person who would tell her exactly what he thought. 

“I didn’t know he was invited,” Lucien said darkly.

Feyre glanced from Lucien to Beron. “We couldn’t very well leave him out of the invitation list. People would talk. Didn’t Tamlin warn you?” She looked at Lucien, her eyebrows furrowed. 

Lucien waved a hand in the air. “It must have slipped his mind.” Before Feyre could protest, Lucien took her hands in his. “Let me go get him for you.” He nodded his head at her again before sweeping away. 

Before Feyre could decide how best to blend into the corner, a task made easier by the fact that Ianthe had chosen a dress fabric much like the yellow wallpaper of the ballroom, Feyre felt another hand at her elbow. The grip was firm, and she sunk back into it. 

“Where have you been?”

Tamlin leaned down and placed a kiss on the shell of Feyre’s ear. “Business.”

An answer she couldn’t protest, as it wasn’t her place or expertise to know better. Feyre released a deep breath through her nose. “Please don’t do that again.”

“Only if you wait for me next time. You know it’s highly inappropriate for a single young lady to come into a room like this unescorted?” Tamlin’s tone was teasing, but there was an edge Feyre recognized. Eventually, she would relearn the rules of this world. 

Tamlin pressed into her side, and Feyre allowed herself to relax for the first time that evening. Words rarely solved anything between them, and so Feyre let her instincts guide her. Surely, if her heart raced at his touch and the idea of soon being married to him, she could stomach Tamlin’s occasional obstinance, even if it meant putting her in awkward positions. Surely the fact that they loved one another would make the rest of it insignificant, including the demands and the moods, the anger and the way he forgot her needs. After all, Feyre wondered, wasn’t this her fairy tale? 

Tamlin stepped forward and Feyre followed suit. The crowd parted around them, though he hadn’t said a word. Now was the time for speeches to confirm what everyone in the room already knew. Feyre’s father should have been there, perhaps, but no one really wanted to hear from him. The truth, slippery creature that it was, required someone of more standing to speak it and pin it down. But her sisters - Nesta and Elain should have been there. Feyre felt a pang at the realization that they hadn’t made it yet, and would likely miss the most important moment of the evening.

Every gaze in the room was on Feyre, and she had the sense that any of them would have loved to watch her stumble, make some unforgivable faux pas. The smiles weren’t those of women wishing Feyre joy, but of those who had been passed over and would flirt shamelessly with her husband behind her back. 

Feyre’s only reassurance was that Tamlin was standing before all of them, making the engagement official. 

“My dear family, friends, and business associates,” he began, “I am pleased you could be here this evening to celebrate a momentous occasion.” He held Feyre’s arm steady, but didn’t spare her a glance. “As I’m sure you all know, I have been a bachelor for far too long.” Laughter tittered through the room, and Feyre reminded herself that his speech would be over soon enough.

As Tamlin’s voice, low and commanding, continued to resonate through the packed ballroom, Feyre caught Elain entering with Nesta. Elain was beaming, happy for her sister whom she assumed was marrying purely for love. The idea that a marriage might be made for other reasons had likely never occurred to Elain. Nesta, on the other hand, was surveying the room with hawk eyes, every bit as analytical and intuitive as Lucien had been, though with perhaps more of a predatory bent. Nesta arranged a spot for them on the edges of the crowd, her arm protectively wrapped around Elain’s. And when Feyre spied a glint on Nesta’s finger that hadn’t been there before, something sank in the pit of her stomach.

As soon as Feyre could break away, she would find Nesta and ask about the ring. Surely it couldn’t have been from whom she suspected, and surely Nesta hadn’t gone ahead with her plan, though she now had no need to. Feyre had never imagined marriage for herself, but it had conveniently come into her path as a way to ensure that neither of her sisters needed to choose the first man who came along with a fortune. 

Tamlin continued to talk, his words becoming a dull drone to Feyre as she scanned the crowd. There were some familiar faces, and some she couldn’t yet attach names to. She was sure that she had learned them at some point, but it had been overwhelming, especially given the circumstances. But the horror of the experiences surrounding her meeting with Tamlin faded out of memory as she spied another face, one she was sure she had never seen before.

There, on the fringes of the crowd, was someone who looked at Feyre with more curiosity than malice. A tall, dark man with eyes of violet, who caused everyone else in the room to fall away. His boutonnière consisted of a single, pale pink rose, matching those she held in her hand. The whisper of gossip, the rustling of silk skirts, and the buzz of Tamlin’s voice dimmed and were replaced with the roar of Feyre’s pumping blood as her eyes locked with his. What should have been fear at being so scrutinized was instead intrigue, and she felt short of breath. Telling herself that it was due to her intricate dress and corsetry, Feyre stood up straighter, lifted her chin, and stared back at the man who had the insolence to look at her as if he knew her.

Tamlin’s speech continued, something about love and family and duty, a small joke that Feyre only caught because of the renewed laughter of the crowd. The man with the rose had no interest in what Tamlin said, but watched Feyre as if studying her reactions. She started when she realized that she wished to pull her arm away from Tamlin, to put distance between them. Instead, she pulled him closer. The beautiful man tilted his head, asking her a question she couldn’t interpret. 

Tamlin patted Feyre’s hand to bring her attention back to him; she blinked and smiled. The sound of polite applause at the end of his speech broke into her thoughts, became a wave washing over Feyre and bringing her back to herself. 

When she dared looked back to the man with the rose, there was an empty space where he had been standing. Feyre found herself surrounded by well-wishers and congratulations, women pulling at her hand to look at the diamond Tamlin had placed there. And as she endured their attentions, she wondered which choices she had made herself, and which were those thrust upon her by a need to ensure her family’s survival.


	2. Chapter 2

Seated at Tamlin’s side, Feyre couldn’t remember which fork she was supposed to use for her amuse-bouche. 

This was the sort of detail-oriented etiquette Elain had memorized since before she was allowed to sit at the dinner table with company, but every rule of that sort of life had flown Feyre’s head the minute she realized that Tamlin was more concerned with talking to Ianthe about her charitable organizations than he was with ensuring that his fiancée was comfortable being seated across from the High Lord of the Autumn Court. 

Feyre gripped the fork placed farthest away from her plate, glancing up furtively to see if anyone would raise an eyebrow or smirk at her faux pas. No one paid her the slightest bit of attention, and she turned back to her gilt-edged plate.

At the very least, Feyre could reassure herself that she was far from the only person having difficulty enjoying their dinner. 

Beron had been baiting Lucien since before he even appeared that evening, sending Lucien a small reminder that he would make an appearance. The note had been presented by Tamlin’s butler at breakfast, and she hadn’t seen him since. She and Tamlin had both recognized the handwriting, but Tamlin kept silent. Feyre had thought about checking on Lucien, but then thought better of it. Tamlin knew Lucien like a brother, after all. 

Now, looking at the way that Lucien seethed at the other end of the table, despite never even glancing in Beron’s direction, Feyre second-guessed her fiancé’s awareness of the emotional needs of his supposed best friend.

Officially, this dinner was one of many parties that the High Lord of the Spring Court held around the spring equinox, but this was also the first time that Feyre would practice playing hostess in his home. She’d had a hand in the menu and seating arrangements, though Ianthe had quickly slipped in bits of wisdom. Feyre and Tamlin wouldn’t be married for weeks, but everyone would accord her the respect that the mistress of a household would expect.

Everyone, it seemed, except for Tamlin himself. 

Ianthe’s light, feminine laughter crossed the table, crowding out any other conversation that Feyre might have heard. She was grateful for her friend, of course. Any questions she’d had about fashion or etiquette, Ianthe was more than happy to answer, and she would do so without that undercurrent of cruel delight that some of the other women might display on learning how utterly unprepared Feyre was to enter her new position. 

Feyre continued to eat, noting that Ianthe’s suggestion of salmon mousse had been, after all, more appropriate for their guests than her own suggestion of vegetable soup. It had seemed like a simple suggestion at the time. The soup would have been something familiar, warm, comforting. But apparently, it had been too simple of a suggestion. Nothing Feyre had grown up with would be acceptable in her new life, it seemed, and she was eternally the last one to realize it.

Feyre glanced to Tamlin, trying to catch him in a moment where he wasn’t eating or speaking with someone, but opportunities were few and far between. Every chance Feyre had to ask Tamlin a question or be reassured that she played her role to some level of satisfaction had been taken by a slight lowering of Ianthe’s eyelids, and demure tilt of her head that called Tamlin’s complete attention, until Feyre felt herself utterly eclipsed. At times like these, she wondered if the way he kissed her mattered, since that was relegated to the private sphere. If Feyre couldn’t count on Tamlin to be her husband in public, what use was any of it?

Beron looked across the table to Feyre and spoke, though she didn’t realize that he had asked her a question until she felt Tamlin place his hand over her own.

“We’re both incredibly excited to have the wedding on the grounds, aren’t we, Feyre?” Without waiting for her to respond, Tamlin continued. “I think we could all use a beautiful, bright spring wedding to show off how well everyone is doing after the past year.” Tamlin patted the back of her hand in the same way he might pet a dog before he turned back to Ianthe, leaving a smirking Beron to turn back to his own wife. 

Feyre nodded, telling herself that at least she didn’t need to come up with a response herself. No doubt Beron’s question had been pointed, aimed to strike a raw nerve she didn’t even know she possessed. Tamlin had likely done her a favor. 

Feyre picked up her fork and took a stab at the tiny portion of food that Ianthe had ordered prepared - she knew what the other High Lords would want, after all, and what was in season. Her familiarity with Feyre’s new world should have been a reassurance, but it only reminded Feyre of how much she didn’t know. She supposed a good hostess would be able to carry on multiple conversations at once and eat without spilling a drop, would sip from her wineglass while smiling in rapt attention at the inane stories. A good hostess and wife would smooth the way for increased diplomacy, would understand the history between all these powerful men, would know which of their spouses would make good allies. 

Lucien, seated on Feyre’s left, was hardly a better conversationalist than her that evening. On a normal day, they might have been trading barbs intended for the guests, whispering so as not to be overhead and scolded by Tamlin. 

Perhaps if she were a better friend, Feyre might have been able to bring together Lucien and his father, but she intuited something dark there, something she’d best leave alone. 

The conversation slowed to nearly a stop, startling Feyre out of her reverie. She glanced around the table to find that Beron, Tamlin, Ianthe, Lucien, and the rest of the guests were looking to the entrance of the dining room. 

Feyre was startled to find that this world, one where artifice counted as much as honesty as long as everyone played along, where one’s ability to handle a situation without making a scene could make up for any number of other transgressions, could put on such a blatant display of surprise. 

Tamlin stood, throwing his napkin on his plate. A manservant stepped forward quickly, pulling Tamlin’s chair back so that he could step away from the table. 

“What are you doing here, Rhysand?”

The man with violet eyes - Rhysand - was leaning in the doorway, hands in his pockets. He wore a smoking jacket, completely inappropriate for dinner. Feyre could tell that much, though it was hardly the time to be self-congratulatory, given the tension in the room. Perhaps later she would ask Ianthe about the propriety of his entrance. The lack of empty settings at the table also told her that Rhysand had not been invited, which hinted at either his boldness, or his lack of fear. Feyre suspected it was some combination of both, given his nonchalant attitude. 

Rhysand pushed himself away from the wall and shrugged. “I thought I would stop by and have a chat with an old friend.” 

Tamlin’s nostrils flared at the insinuation.

“It seems I’ve interrupted something important, though,” Rhysand continued. He glanced from Lucien to Beron. “Family reunion?” He smiled, and Lucien’s grip on his fork tightened, his knuckles turning white from the effort. 

Beron, Feyre was surprised to see, was contemplating his words before he said them. Finally, he joined in. “It’s nearly spring equinox, Rhysand. Doesn’t your court have its own traditions?”

Rhysand tilted his head in consideration, then glanced around the room. “Yes, and some of them involve surprise visits.” He waited with a grin on his face, as if he expected someone to laugh at the joke. Lacking in response, he sighed. “Am I not going to be invited to take a seat at the table, then?” His gaze finally landed on Feyre, though she had the sense that she had been his destination all along. “Will the lady of the house not invite me to dine?”

Feyre’s breath caught in her throat and she stood. “I’m afraid not.” She felt the reassuring press of Tamlin’s hand at her back. 

Tamlin stepped around Feyre before she needed to speak again, shielding her from Rhysand’s view. Despite the hush of the dining room, Feyre couldn’t make out what they said to one another with bowed heads before Rhysand nodded at the room, pivoting on his heels to leave. 

Tamlin cleared his throat as he retook his seat, nodding at everyone to begin their meal anew. Feyre sat slowly, wondering if she should do anything else to smooth over the interruption. As she placed her napkin in her lap, she was startled to find that she had twisted it so tightly that she had to unravel the fabric before laying it over her skirts. Ianthe turned to a neighbor and began chatting, starting the process of pretending that nothing had happened, the charade that there had been no disturbance, though Rhysand’s appearance was all anyone would talk about in drawing rooms the next morning. 

Feyre placed her hand on Tamlin’s arm, a silent question, but received nothing in response. 

A moment passed, and she felt a slight pressure on her thigh. It was the barest of acknowledgements, but it served to hold Feyre over for the following hours, when the men would take their cigars and discuss business and politics, while the ladies would retreat for gossip. 

Feyre wondered that her affection, as vast and endless as it felt, could be sustained on so little in return. That she could feel into the very core of who she was that she loved Tamlin, and that she could so easily satisfy herself with these small gestures, which might heal the minuscule cuts she sustained throughout the day.

Surrounded by frothy lace and polite smiles, Feyre counted down the minutes until her role was done, until she could leave for the evening. The cold solace of her bed had never seemed like such a comfort until she was surrounded by women who counted Ianthe amongst their friends. And Feyre refused to consider the implications of such a loneliness, assuming it was temporary. Any discomfort she felt would pass as soon as she was officially married. 

In the drawing room, the women deferred to Feyre, asking to see her engagement ring, chittering excitedly about the wedding plans. She was the center of attention, which she knew was not only her privilege, but her right. She shifted from one foot to another as they spoke, trying to find a comfortable position in the room. When Tamlin’s grandfather clock chimed midnight, Feyre started out of the chair she had found for herself, making her excuses to leave, pretending to regret parting from the company of such dear friends. 

Feyre stood in the foyer of Tamlin’s house - soon to be her home - and waited for a servant to bring her coat. She took in a sharp breath when an arm wrapped itself around her waist and pulled her close. 

“I’ve missed you,” Tamlin breathed into her ear. 

Feyre felt herself melting into him, and wished that they could have spent the evening dining alone. She turned and hung her arms around his neck, pressing herself against him. “I was sitting there the whole time.”

“Where?” Tamlin brushed his fingers over the lace at her shoulder, focusing his attention on it instead of her gaze.

“At dinner.” 

Tamlin pulled away, frowning down at her. “You know I had some things to take care of.” He lowered his lips to her neck, and Feyre clenched her fist behind his back.

“Next week, then? Will we have the box to ourselves?”

The opening of Tristan and Isolde had drawn the attention of everyone who loved the opera, and everyone who wished to claim a certain level of taste. All the High Lords had a box, and they each took turns proclaiming the superiority of their box’s position. Superiority, of course, depended on who had the best view of the other patrons, rather than who had the best view of the stage. 

“We will have the box, but it won’t be just us. Lucien is coming.”

Feyre pulled away and frowned. “Lucien?”

“It’s a favor, Feyre.” Tamlin sighed and grasped her gloved hands. “I couldn’t very well turn him away, not when the only other option was his father’s box or sitting in the balcony.”

“Well what’s so bad about the balcony,” Feyre asked. “Can’t he hear the performances just as well from there?”

Tamlin rolled his eyes and pressed her fingers to his lips before releasing them. “He’s the son of a High Lord. So no, the balcony won’t do. Don’t worry, we can dine together afterward,” he added in conciliation. 

A servant cleared his throat and Feyre waited to feel the weight of her coat as Tamlin helped her into it. Kissing his cheek, she stepped out into the cold, clear night. 

The darkness of the February evening closed around Feyre, and she quietly wished for the longer days of spring and summer as she watched the cobblestones beneath her feet before stepping into the carriage that Tamlin hired for her. One wrong move and she would be on her backside, ruining the dress that Tamlin had spent a fortune on. Many a woman had found herself lain up for the season, unable to attend events because of a twisted ankle. 

Blocks from her rented apartments, Feyre called out to the driver to stop and let her out. The night may have been cold, but at least the stars didn’t threaten to engulf her in their stares. Though he looked wary of leaving his charge behind short of her destination, the coachman stopped and helped her down, only sparing her a glance before he left, undoubtedly glad to be heading home early.

Feyre watched her footing, aware that the street in her neighborhood was less well-tended than it had been in Tamlin’s neighborhood. And still, she was able to carry herself with less care than she had while in the hallways and drawing rooms of Tamlin’s home. She let her shoulders slump forward, took off her gloves and unbuttoned the top of her coat. 

Her eyes on the ground, Feyre didn’t see the three men approaching. She stopped in front of her door and was reaching for her key before she looked up. And by the time she saw them, they were close enough to reach out and grab her. 

“What do we have here?” The man in front strolled as if it were mid-afternoon and he had just happened to find himself at Feyre’s front door, she alone and cold and tired. 

Feyre looked to each of them and pulled her gloves back on, buttoned her coat to her throat. “Can I help you?” Casual would have been the way to go, if only she could have managed it; her voice trembled, and she tried to play it off by coughing. 

“We’re just a bit hungry, ma’am. Perhaps you could,” he said, glancing up at the warm light of her home, “Invite us inside?”

Feyre frowned and tried to move past them to her step. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.” She lifted a foot to place on her step but one of the men in back, one who smelled of tobacco and drink, blocked her way. 

“Then perhaps you can help us some other way?” He looked her up and down with an expression that had her feeling nearly undressed, though she was covered from neck to toe. His hand tapped at his leg, and when she looked down she was startled to see that he held a gun. It was nearly hidden between the darkness of the street and the color of his garment, and he didn’t hold it with any confidence. But, she thought, he probably didn’t need to. Not when they had her so close. 

“I’ll scream,” Feyre warned. 

The leader chuckled. “That’s not a problem. My friend here might even find it enjoyable.” He tossed a look to the man who was blocking Feyre’s way up her steps, who licked his lips in response. 

Feyre took a step back, then another, making a plan for how she could run away. But where would she run to? The men stood between her and her front door, from safety. 

Another step back had Feyre falling on the uneven street. She landed on her back, her wrist twisting painfully underneath her as she attempted to break her fall while keeping her eye on the threat. They only laughed and sauntered closer, until footsteps clicked on the sidewalk behind her.

“What do we have here?” 

Feyre looked up at the deep, calm voice that had spoken to see Rhysand looming over her. What should have been relief was instead confusion, as her instincts told her that a man who was an enemy to Tamlin might not be one she could count on to rescue her. 

“I’ve been waiting for you.” Rhysand held his hand out to Feyre, helping her up from the grimy street while the others watched, their postures becoming defensive. 

Feyre took Rhysand’s hand, not bothering to brush away whatever filth had made its way onto her skirts. When she was back on even ground, she looked from man to man, and then stood with Rhysand at her side. 

With a swift motion, Rhysand reached forward. Feyre didn’t have time to catch each move he made before he had the gun in his hand, and the advantage with it. He didn’t bother pointing it at the men, but folded his hands before himself, a casual reminder of how quickly he could move, if he needed to. 

“Go.”

The men nearly tripped over themselves as they ran down the street, not taking a moment to look back and see if they were being pursued, if perhaps he had decided to raise that gun after all. 

Feyre let herself slump onto the brick steps of her entry. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Rhysand glanced around as if still wary of a threat. “Why were you out, alone?” He inspected the gun and then tucked it into a pocket.

“Aren’t you afraid that’s going to…” Feyre made a vague gesture, followed by the sound she assumed a gun would make.

Rhysand laughed, real and deep and rich. “It’s not loaded.”

“Oh.” Feyre sighed and wrapped her arms around herself. In the excitement since leaving the carriage, she hadn’t had a chance to realize just how cold it was. She exhaled and watched a cloud form before it dissipated. She should go inside, she knew, she should let her servants go to bed instead of waiting to attend to her needs. But the walls of a parlor, she had realized, wouldn’t offer her refuge. And so outside, in the cold winter air, Feyre Archeron allowed herself to talk to a man with whom she had no business making herself acquainted. 

“Aren’t you glad?” Rhysand sat on the step next to her, keeping enough distance that there was air between them.

“Yes.” Feyre considered her answer. “Well, no. Maybe. I just don’t know what’s really a threat. How can I tell? I can’t even make it home without stumbling into something unexpected in this world.” She looked up at Rhysand and his severe profile. Perhaps it was the exhaustion, or the threat to her life, but she couldn’t help thinking that he was beautiful. She might have painted him, or sculpted him, had she the time. But as Tamlin would no doubt disapprove, she settled with memorizing how the bridge of his nose sloped in such a way, regretting that she wouldn’t have a chance to meet the challenge of painting eyes that particular shade of violet. 

“How can you tell,” she asked, “When someone is your friend or your enemy? How can I tell what poses a true threat?”

“It’s all a threat,” Rhysand answered. 

Feyre frowned. “Is that really how you see the world?”

He turned towards her, and Feyre sat up straighter. “It’s the only way I can,” he answered. He stood from her step, offering her a hand.

Walking up to her front door, Feyre could feel Rhysand watching her. She didn’t doubt that he would use any relationship with her against Tamlin, that he would take anything she shared and use it against the Spring Court. A thought crossed her mind, enough to make her shudder. “What were you doing out here?” 

Rhysand tilted his head. “Taking a walk.”

Feyre frowned, but didn’t press him. “Thank you, Rhysand. And please, if you could not mention this to…” Her voice trailed off, trying to find the words.

“To Tamlin?”

She flushed despite the chill. “To anyone.”

He nodded before answering. “Call me Rhys.”


End file.
